


Ironically

by WeBuiltThePyramids



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: But I Don't Really Care, F/M, Fluff and Smut, cheleanor, this is going to be impossible to be canon as soon as 3.11 airs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeBuiltThePyramids/pseuds/WeBuiltThePyramids
Summary: Ironically, she can’t remember the last time she has felt so completely alive.





	Ironically

**Author's Note:**

> I don't go here, but I'd like to apply for admission.

One could say they still had no idea where they were, or where they stood in the grand scheme of the afterlife and all of its courts and judges and points systems and everything that could throw a proverbial wrench in the gears of what had long since been disproven, shown to not in fact be a finely tuned, foolproof machine. And on one hand, in one interpretation, it was true. One the other hand, Eleanor knows exactly where she is right now, in the dead center of a bed in a room Michael had left her and Chidi in while he is off "trying to figure out what the heckers is going on" (he had to have specifically chosen to say heckers, there was no way  _any_  filter changed anything to heckers), her clothing making up half of the pile on the floor. And she knows where she stands here, not with the universe but with Chidi, who is also exactly in the center of the bed, but just a little farther down it. His hands are on her hips, his lips brushing along her thigh hesitantly as he asks. "Do you like… _this_?"

"I'm a living, breathing wom…" the  _an, what do you think?_  Cuts off as she realizes how weird it is to not be able to say she's alive. She wonders if she'll get used to it. She seemed to have adjusted fine in previous resets. She's flustered now, and she defaults to her most successful defense mechanism – casual detachment. "I do if the person knows their way around down there." She speaks as if she's issuing some sort of challenge.

He looks up at her, that expression that she can never differentiate between amused or 1000% done, then rolls his eyes and lowers his head.

She closes her eyes, hands palms down on the mattress. He's good at this. He's either a natural or has been taught well.  _If the latter, shout out to the women that taught him._  She's not a moaner – that's a clear sign she's faking – but more of a gasper, a heavy breather, and she's hyper aware of how dramatically her chest rises and falls as he picks up on and responds to her physical cues as if  _they_  were what he'd studied all his life. Years and years, decades even, researching Eleanor Shellstrop and learning how to get her to breathe the way she's breathing now, hands pressed hard against the mattress, head tipped back and hips pushed against him. She's nearly delirious, but the thought passes through her mind that while he hasn't actually had  _any_  time to perfect these skills with her, he will have  _all of eternity_.

No, not he,  _they_. Whatever forever actually means, they're going to experience that. Together.

Chidi makes her hips jerk as he hums against her, it sounds like a question and she only has one answer on her tongue.

" _Don't. forking. stop_."

He doesn't, and she slides a hand down to rest in his hair. She feels his fingers twitch, flexing the same way her fingers do, his instinct is to hold her hand and the realization makes a pleasant shudder run down her spine, followed by a another stronger one as he finishes her off expertly, making her chest heave and her body shake in a way that might look violent in any other context. Her eyes open while her vision is still sorting itself out, but she sees Chidi, first somewhat blurry, then in 20/20, as he crawls up over her. "I would like to kiss you now," he says.

"Than kiss me," she answers, reaching up and placing a hand on the back of his neck, guiding him down to her. He's a good kisser too, and she chooses to believe there is something soul-matey about the way he knows just how she likes to be kissed because, well, that would be a wicked cool afterlife perk. Or maybe memories can go away, but not certain learned actions, like how one never forgets how to ride a bike. Maybe their eight hundred odd times in the afterlife had left subconscious recollections on how to kiss each other, since she knew they had kissed each other countless times before.

Heck, maybe that shout out she was giving earlier was actually to both women Chidi had been with in life  _and_  previous versions of her in death. Or maybe that's ridiculous. It isn't really possible for Eleanor to tell anymore. She decides she wants more of those memories. She wants Chidi to have the option of seeing them, too, though she doesn't know if he'll want to.

She blocks out those thoughts – plenty of time for them in forever – and lifts her feet, wrapping her legs around him and mumbling how she wants him between kisses. He settles between her thighs, a hand finding hers as he begins to move, and she's never felt intimacy like this, at least not outside of past versions of this that she doesn't have enough clarity on to relive. She gasps, gripping him more tightly and rolling her hips in a matching tempo, her lips finding and sucking on his earlobe until he makes her gasp again and sort – of – curse as her abdomen twitches. She can tell by the way he grunts and pants her name that everything about this is mutual and that pleases her because she's in love with him and for the first time ever she's understanding what it's like to want everything for someone else that you want for yourself. And given how self – absorbed she knows she is, that means she wants a  _lot_  for Chidi.

"Eleanor," Chidi says, his tone slightly different. She understands, flexing around him, moving his hand to guide him to where she wants to be touched even though he already knows because she finds showing him hot. He groans, he's close, but she's closer, and she finishes a second time, beating him by seconds, feeling his release through his body as it presses against hers. They're both breathing hard; foreheads pressed together before he rolls off of her and she wiggles onto her side so she can get close to him again. She's never been a cuddler, preferring to keep her distance, but this is different, so exactly the opposite. Right here, right now, all she wants is less distance, less hiding, fewer walls.

Ironically, she can't remember the last time she has felt so completely alive.

"Chidi?" She slurs, feeling sort of loopy. She slides a hand to rest on his stomach and feels him gather her into his arms.

"Hmm?" He asks.

The words come out in a mumble, but she knows he hears because his arm squeezes her hip. "You're my good place."


End file.
